


Needing you

by Ange_desu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Overdose, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:32:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_desu/pseuds/Ange_desu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson waited long enough, but he reached a point when he cannot keep up with the feeling of loss anymore. He needs Sherlock, but Sherlock's not there. Sherlock is dead, as he has been for a very long time.<br/>So maybe, it's time to follow him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> //post-reichen, John and his suicide, I had angsty moment but it's not that bad--
> 
> Urm ehm. Well, need to say, I switch POVs in this story a bit. They're always marked by bold name before the text.  
> Any comments will be taken as brilliant and I'll love you forever if you tell me what you think.

**John Watson**

They always said it is going to go away. All the pain, all the frustration. It is said that one can’t feel them forever. But I’ve been devastated for too long, and I am exhausted of feeling so. Why, you ask me. I go to the therapist your brother told me to fire once. She doesn’t seem to say clever things, not like you. She says things that matter, though. I go home, and I stare at the screen of my laptop, unable to write a single word to blog. _Because nothing happens_. Nothing can ever happen, since you are not here...

I used to sit by the window. Not to stare out, but inside. At the wall you once shot. The tapestry is old, but the smiley face is still holding. In a dark shade created by curtain, and in pitiful solitude... It’s me, isn’t it. There, somewhere, a part of the flat, but nothing more. Unchanging. Still. _Left behind_.

Never, for a single moment, I believed you’d be fraud. I knew you, all the months, weeks, days we spent together. Every single second. Did it mean nothing to you? Did it not matter that I still trust you? Sherlock, I don’t understand. Why did you have to jump, why did you have to leave me all alone – sometimes I feel like the part of life I spent with you had never happened at all. I was alone before it, I am alone now. Yet I sit on the chair, and I see the room filled with the remains of your presence. And I feel trapped because I know you once were here, I know exactly how would your dark hair be lit up at 2 pm if you sat on the sofa with curtains opened. My mind is rioting, trying to imagine you being here, trying to bring you back.

But then I blink, and I am back on the edge of despair, like always. The space is empty. So quiet even my thoughts seem to be echoing. It’s driving me mad, but no more than the dreams which keep replaying your fall off that rooftop. It’s been too long, Sherlock. I stopped sleeping. I can’t bear it.

I can’t handle you not being here.

My soul crumbles. I have no other words for this. Something is eating away on me, maybe sorrow, maybe guilt for not being able to stop it. No matter what it is, it’s dark. Conscious, alive, and spreading. It’s dreadful. Maybe this darkness has always been here. But you kept it away. You always did. But you’re not here to stop it anymore. So it grows.

I long for you. I want to see your face. The dark curls covering your eyes, so focused on something. That gaze which is off the reality and yet perfectly deep in it – far deeper than anyone else has ever been. The lips, soft, murmuring some words. Your voice, so captivating, even when having annoying comments about people being stupid and telling them to shut up. Your long, slender fingers, playing the violin in mourning tones.

God, Sherlock. I miss you.

I miss you far too much. And I am sorry. I don’t think you ever expected great things out of me, but still. I am sorry, for I cannot accept the reality without you.

I tried.

It didn’t work.

 

 

 

**Sherlock Holmes**

It’s been a long time, far too long. I had to take care of things properly, but then I was hesitating to go and see you. I was afraid of the reaction, of the anger, of rejection. You might not welcome me by your side anymore, John. Even though I did all of this for you. It wouldn’t matter that I survived, it wouldn’t matter I solved the whole thing, if I did not have a place, a person to go back to. And never before in my life did I think this way.

It all came down on me needing to see you, I needed an confrontation and believed – in a bit of shaky manner – that I can fix everything up, including our relationship. I knew you still resided in 221B Baker Street. I saw you a few months back in a grocery store, before I went off to some other place to deal with this mess. You looked pale, with a dark circles under your eyes.

John, I am terribly sorry for what I’ve caused you. I wanted to apologize, all along, but never got a chance. Today I’ll fix that. However, I tried to tell you, even back then. On t he rooftop. _It was all just a trick – just a magic trick._ I couldn’t do more than give you a subtle hint. It was frustrating to see you coping with life and ignoring exactly that hint I gave you.

And so I opened the door to the flat, and went up the stairs. It hasn’t changed much on the first look, although the atmosphere seemed to be more hostile, the air more heavy. It might be my mind playing tricks on me though, or a very bad foreseeing. But I did not mind and focused my entire attention on you, or rather the idea of you, since I still haven’t seen you.

Immediately as I reached the top and entered _our_ part of the flat, I sensed a very unpleasant scent reminding me of spit and vomit. Alarmed, I made haste to go through the door and I entered the living room, to find you lying on the floor.

 

 

 

**John Watson**

I always trusted you, Sherlock, to come and save me. It was proven; you always did in the past. But this single time, there was no need for trust, no need for hope. I knew what I was doing, and I was fully aware of the consequences. I thought that maybe this way, it’ll be over. All the thoughts, all the pain.

The moment I laid on the floor, my body was shivering with fear. I was choking, and couldn’t breathe.  And the world was going away, and suddenly, I wanted to hold on. The minutes passed in terrifying agony, and I was not sure whether I am awake or dreaming, or whether I still exist or not.

Then I heard loud bumps. Like footsteps, but multiplied to an enormous volume, yet muffled and dull. It’s quite hard to explain. And I tried to open my eyes, only to realize they’ve been opened all the time, but all I saw was blur. Yes, just a blurry shapes, colors blending together, and there, in the middle, something moving.

And then I felt warm fingers, and heard a voice from very far away, saying my name.

And the funny thing was, Sherlock, that I saw _you_. But you were dead, so were you calling me? Were you asking me to go back to your side, where I belong...?

So I closed my eyes and let myself drift away. I stopped struggling for life, so empty and detestful as it had your name written on one of the tombstones in a certain graveyard.

  

 

 

**Sherlock Holmes**

What were you doing?! I wanted to scream and yell at you, but there were far more important things to do. I felt my heart race in a very desperate and fearful manner as I observed the surroundings to create a pretty clear idea. The room was a mess, you haven’t been bothering to clean up. There were no visits lately, and you shut yourself in, most likely staring at the shot wall, judging by the angle of the chair and marks on carpet saying it has been turned to that side for quite some time now. But what was more important was a little tiny glass bottle near your hand, which most likely slipped off your fingers and rolled there.

It was painful to realize it used to be full of pills, and you swallowed them, completely voluntarily.

“John... JOHN!” I was angry at myself for not coming sooner. A day. Or half an hour. Anytime before you did this. Angry for not letting you know I was fine, for letting you suffer alone up to this point. I thought you’ll move on. _Why didn’t you forget me, John?_

I hit the ground with my knees, my mind went hazy and I stopped caring about anything but the sole purpose of saving your life. Touching your cheek, I tried to pull you back into consciousness, as my lips kept on repeating your name. Did you hear it? Hey, John, could you hear my voice, so desperate for reply?

Turning you around, I clearly recalled the emergency steps for overdosing. I put you in the right position, and supported your head with one of my hands – then forced the other down your throat to force you to vomit.

“You need to get it out, John! Get it out...” I realized I am not screaming your name anymore, the words became a slurred mumble, but they were still there, filling the room constantly; me, talking to you and hoping you’d open your eyes. I could feel you’re breathing, at almost non-existent extent, but you were, and that kept me going on with my rant.

_Listen, John. Listen. I am here. Don’t go away, I am right here, there is no need for you to go anywhere, just stay here._

“Stay here, John.”

_Stay with me..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John overdose, Sherlock come back to find him in a bad state and desperately trying to save his life. And well, this is what follows.  
> If some of you want to imagine tragic end, you can stop reading--  
> *Switching to third person POV*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have my eternal gratefulness if you comment. Tell me what you think. Thank you. You're awesome person if you do.

***** LATER*****

The whiteness was making the surroundings seem rather illusional, as the room was filled with nothing but the silent beeps, which were separated by periodic spaces of silence. Chemical scent was well burned into objects and the wall, making the place seem far too sterile.

John Watson, lying on the hospital bed, slowly opened his eyes. It was not a big movement, but it took awful lot of energy, and his eyelids wavered as he was not sure he can keep them opened. His head was aching with a dull pain and he could not collect his thoughts. It was all too scattered, too random. Where was he and why was he there? Why did his head hurt like that? He wished it could cease, even for one single moment, so he can think.

And then there was shuffling, and something tucked on his sleeve.

Following the sensation, he turned his head to the side to see the dark curls. They were perfectly contrasting with the whiteness of the room, as if the man himself wanted to scream that he is there. John held in his breath, in a fascination or astonishment, and in the next second managed to convince himself it is a dream and calmed down.

Yet there was something uneasy about the whole situation and the degree to which it felt real.

Sherlock was sitting beside the bed, his head resting on his own hand, eyes shut, sleeping, while the other hand held onto John’s shirt. As if to make sure he’s there and won’t go anywhere on his own.

Minutes passed and John could not move nor do anything but to stare at that face. It was alien feeling that ran down his spine and ended up swirling in his belly, as he picked up every single detail, like the chin not being shaved carefully, and wrinkles indicating distress. The hair was longer than he remember Sherlock ever having, even though only a little bit, and abruptly dark. Was it always that dark...?

He was not allowed to think about the things any longer, since it seemed that his thoughts themselves were loud enough to wake the other man. Sherlock moved, clearly in a pain from the position he was sleeping in, frowning and with mind in disarray for a moment.

And it was exactly that second when John recalled holding a bottle of pills and being all ready to die and follow Sherlock to death, and then seeing a blurry spot which _might’ve been_ Sherlock right before blacking out.

“Am I dead?” he asked, the first thing after their eyes met.

For the longest moment, Sherlock did not answer. He simply stared into John’s eyes, letting the feeling of gratitude toward someone else being alive sink in. It was showing, as the corners of his mouth went up, before he was capable of constraining himself and putting on the straight face. “No.”

“Then you are a ghost.” That wasn’t a question, it was more of a statement. Almost like an absolute deduction which could not be misproven.

“Wrong. I am very well alive, and so are you, John,” Sherlock assured him.

And after making sure John is awake and ready to listen, with his full attention on him, Sherlock went onto explaining why he had to do what he did, and what happened in the past eternity, while John was slowly losing his mind without the consulting detective by his side.

As he ended, John sighed. “Oh, God. I missed that.”

“I am back, John.” Sherlock grinned upon that comment, and never for a moment lost an eye-contact.

“Doesn’t mean I forgive you that hell. I’ll punch you, once I stop feeling like shit.”

The reply was simple nod. Sherlock took that into account. “You have every right to do so. “

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” said the army doctor.

“I know you weren’t,” Sherlock nodded, an odd smile on his lips. It felt strange to be near John again, to be able to observe him and predict his next moves, to be able to hear his voice and talk to him. Never before was he so glad that he could be around other person.

“Please never do anything like that again,” John’s voice shifted into much more quieter tone, a careful plea with a string of fear over the scenario happening again.

“Never will,” Sherlock promised. _‘If it won’t be to save your life’,_ he added in his mind.

The End


End file.
